Coq Au Vin
by iWriteStories.Sometimes
Summary: Draco is going to discover the wonderful art that is cooking. It is quite like potions; only better, because you can eat it when you're done. Draco and the Golden Trio are at Hogwarts to complete their 7th year. But things are not as peachy-keen in the Wizarding World as they seem. Really the thought that to win the war all they needed to do was kill Voldemort was a bit foolish.
1. The Book

This is my first attempt at writing anything that isn't a poem. as i'm quickly realizing are two very different types of writing. i can try to promise that as this goes on the chapters will get longer and better, you know as my confidence gathers, but i'm not going to do that. i honestly don't know.

almost done: NOT MINE, comments are welcomed, constructive criticism is welcomed, flames are not. but knowing myself and being the glutton for punishment that i am, i will read them. i will either cry or be angry. whichever comes first, really.

* * *

okay. thanks to gothicking12 who pointed out that i rushed a bit in the beginning of the chapter, i read it over again and completely agreed, i spruced a bit. i hope that this is better.

* * *

The Book

Draco didn't know what to do with himself anymore. His father was in Azkaban for the rest of his life, yet he somehow still had the ability to pressure Draco and make him feel like shit through letters.

Letters like the one he had laying on his bed, safe behind warded curtains, unopened.

Draco already knew what was in the letter; his father had sent him many letters just like it, berating his son for not figuring out a way for him to escape prison already, asking Draco how and what measurements he had taken to further their cause, who were their allies, and what allies they could gain now that the 'insane halfblood Riddle' was gone.

The letter still lay unread because, forgive him if he's wrong, Draco had thought that the fighting would be over. Potter had won. He had defeated the 'insane halfblood Riddle' and now all Draco would have to do would be to survive and prosper.

Draco had thought that he would have become the new Lord Malfoy, how could his father run a household from prison, unfortunately the Ministry thought that the Malfoys would be easier to control without a proper head. They were wrong, and Draco was still the puppet he always was with 'Daddy' pulling the strings.

Draco thought that he would be free. Free to do and become whatever he wanted.

It was humbling and humiliating to know that he was so wrong. The war wasn't over, not even close, and Draco was once again trapped in a situation that he never wanted to be in. Only this time he wouldn't fool himself into believing that what his father was doing was noble and right. This time he wouldn't delude himself into believing that his father wanted what was best for him. He wouldn't trick himself into thinking that he would be honored and protected.

Draco's mother wasn't in much of a better situation than he was. She was at the manor on house arrest for the rest over her life, never allowed to leave, unless on the Ministry's say so.

The fact that she was pregnant didn't mean anything to them. She wasn't even allowed to leave for her healer visits. They just brought the healer to her.

He didn't even want to think about the fact that she was alone. She was all alone in that home turned twice a prison. She had no one to talk to. She didn't have any friends, or family. Only him.

His mother sent him letters every week, multiple times, and the time in between letters kept getting shorter and shorter. Letters that said nothing but how much she missed him and loved him, and checkins on how her pregnancy was progressing. The poorly disguised, absolute loneliness that poured off each page broke his heart with every word.

And as guilty and confused as it made him, he only answered her barely half of the time.

She didn't even have house elves to talk to. The Ministry took them all away. They took it upon themselves to put the Malfoy vaults on hold until Draco graduated from Hogwarts. They do give her an allowance, only just enough to live on.

His mother, who's never worked a day in her life, now had to cook, clean, and prepare for a newborn all by herself. Not that Draco hadn't tried to help her. He petitioned for the Ministry to allow him to hire servants. They had rejected him saying that it was an 'unnecessary use of funds'. He couldn't do anything to help her.

Just another thing that he had to worry about is the fact that he would no longer be an only child. Not to mention, that in his opinion, his mother was too old to safely carry any children to term. It's not like she ever had much luck with bearing children in the first place. He knows how many and who lies beneath the rose garden his mother takes care of so vigilantly. But she was so happy about her pregnancy that he would never tell her his thoughts on the matter.

Plus, the fact that he now had a competitor for the family name, if it's a boy, his father could finally grow tired of him and disown him with another child waiting as a replacement. Then he'd really have and be nothing.

He couldn't think of anything else, but the fact that his life was shit and nothing worked out for him the way his father had planned for it to.

Even his grades were falling so far and fast that Mudblood Granger was ahead of him in three classes and gaining on him in Potions.

Draco may not be able to control his life, but he can control his grades. The very thought that Uppity Mudblood Granger was close to beating him in his best class would not be tolerated or accepted.

Hence, the reason he was in the library. She could have Astrology, Arithmancy, and Charms. But he'd be damned if she would have Potions.

With all of the things on his mind distracting him, he didn't notice that he wasn't in the Potions sections of the library anymore, but the muggle.

Running his fingers along the dusty book spines, not even reading the titles, he decided to think about something slightly less depressing, like the fact that he hasn't had his favorite meal, Coq Au Vin, in what felt like years.

The memory of summer evenings spent with his mother at their villa in France. The smell, and the taste. The laughter and smiles shared between the two of them, mother and son.

And the reason he hasn't tasted it in so long is the fact that the insipid house elf Dobby couldn't cook to save his life.

What kind of house elf couldn't cook? He shook his head. It couldn't possibly be that difficult. Throw some things in a pot, sprinkle some stuff on top and you're done. Draco reasoned that the house elf must either be defective or stupid.

His thoughts were interrupted by a loud slamming that could only be books that have been tossed onto a table without care. "Ronald!" Great. Mudblood Granger is here, but then again, when is she not? And when she and Weasel are near, Potter is never far behind.

No, thinking about Potter would only push him further down his spiral of depression. Because thinking about Potter would lead to thinking about the war, which would lead to thinking about his failures, which would lead to thinking about how Potter was there to save him most of the times that he needed to be saved, which would lead to him wishing that Potter would save-

Draco immediately killed that train of thought, instead he focused on the book that he was fingering, and snatched his hand back gasping like the book had suddenly caught fire. It was a plain black book, nothing special. Certainly nothing that was the cause him of him wiping his hands on his trousers. No, the reason for that were the shiny golden letters trailing down the spine: How To Play Muggle Chess.

Disgusting! He recoiled further away from the book. Even the thought that he touched something that was about them made him want to gag. He might not think that they should all die, but that doesn't mean that he wants anything to do with them. Ever.

Draco turned around so quickly that he almost tripped, almost mind you that Malfoys don't trip, into the bookcase on the other side of the aisle. Catching himself on a shelf, his eyes zeroed in on the book right in his eyeline: French Provincial Cooking, by Elizabeth David.

Draco swiftly straightened himself and snorted. As if a muggle can do anything as sophisticated as to prepare food from France properly. Especially with a name as laughable as Elizabeth David.

Chuckling he pulled the book out from between two other titles that he had no care to read, and stuffs it in his bag to take out and make fun of later. He pulls down a couple of other books that look educational enough to carry out of the library so that no one thinks that he was in the Muggle Studies section by choice, and believe that he was there for an assignment.

But of course, once he rounded the corner he came face to face with the Golden Trio.

"What are you doing here, Ferrett?" Weasel, attempting to be intimidating, all but hissed at Draco.

Draco rolled his eyes upwards, asking whatever deity above to give him strength. "What the bloody hell do you think I'm doing here, Weasel? In the library? Surrounded by books?"

Draco sees Potter narrow his eyes and Granger place her hands on her hips in battle stance. Great.

Weasel's chest puffed up and he took a couple steps closer to Draco, so that he could loom over him. "You better shut your mouth, Malfoy, before I shut it for you." Weasel growled.

Draco put on the most deadpan, uninterested face that he could wear, and used his most bland and emotionless voice and said, "Wow. Weasley, you're so big, so strong, and so scary. No one can ever deny that you're important and that you matter. No one could possibly doubt your manliness and superiority above all others. But one can't help but wonder if you're," Draco slowly dragged his eyes down and up Weasley's body, with a little pause at the groin. "Compensating for something." Draco finished to really drive in the fact that Weasley meant nothing to him.

With great pleasure Draco watched Weasley try his best to make his face match his hair.

"You little shit!" Weasley yelled reaching for his wand.

Draco's eyes widened and he took a step back, raising his books to use a barrier.

"Ron, don't!" Granger pulled on Weasley's arm and looked disgustedly back at Draco. "Unfortunately, he hasn't actually done anything wrong this time." This time? Bitch.

Weasley's next step stuttered a bit and he looked down at Granger with wide, embarrassed eyes. "But 'Mione, he…" Weasley broke eye contact with her and blushed an even deeper red, which Draco hadn't thought possible and was pleasantly surprised.

Granger chased Weasley's eyes and gazed into them wondrously. "Now Ron, you mustn't always be so quick to anger." She placed a hand on his face and smiled a little. "We both know that he's wrong." The two of them giggled and wrapped their arms around each other.

Ugh! Each time Draco saw their eyes sparkle brought him closer and closer to vomiting. With a quick glance at Potter, Draco confirmed that he wasn't to far off either or he was just jealous. Though of Granger or Weasley, Draco didn't know.

"As rivetingly repulsive as this is, and trust me it is quite a show, I must be going before I sick up right where I stand." Draco made to walk around the Golden Love Triangle when he was stopped by Potter stepping in his way. Taking a breath to steady himself, Draco looked up into Potter's cold green eyes. Up? When the bloody hell did he get taller than me? Must be some type of witchcraft. Stupid bloody Mudblood Granger's witchcraft no doubt.

"What are you doing with Muggle books, Malfoy?" Potter questioned with narrowed eyes in a low voice. Because of course, he noticed.

"Yeah." Weasley added completely unnecessarily at Potter's side with Granger on the other. Draco ponders how they got there so quickly when he only blinked once and there they were. Seriously it's a wonder Potter can do anything with those two always up his arse.

Draco rolled his eyes once again at Weasley then refocused his gaze on Potter.

"If you must know Potter, the Ministry is punishing me by making Muggle Studies mandatory." Draco thought quickly and spoke with a flippant air about himself.

Potter looked doubtful and was opening his mouth to say something when Draco cut him off by swiftly spinning away and walking, more like strutting, in the opposite direction with his robes billowing behind him in a fashion that would make Severus proud.

Even though knowing that looking back at them would defeat the point of his dramatic exit, Draco couldn't help himself. As he was about to turn the corner around a shelf, he looked back.

He looked back right into the face Potter was making.

That familiar suspicious, narrowed eyed, distrusting, obsessive, concentrated, creepy look.

That same look Potter gave him all of sixth year, when Potter was stalking him.

Once again, Draco found himself thinking, Great.


	2. The Howler

**now i've edited the first chapter for the people who are coming back and aren't rereading it. i would recommend going back. but that's just me. i would also recommend reviewing. but if this is the first time you even saw this story ignore what i said... but not that part about the reviewing. i'd very much like that.**

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THE HOWLER

He looked back right into the face Potter was making.

That familiar suspicious, narrowed eyed, distrusting, obsessive, concentrated, creepy look.

That same look Potter gave him all of sixth year, when Potter was stalking him.

Once again, Draco found himself thinking, _Great._

* * *

Rolling his eyes back up to curse whatever deities above for slighting him, once again, Draco marched out of the book section of the library, stuffing his unwanted unwanted books into the arms of an unsuspecting first year on the way.

Ignoring the inane chittering of those around him, he pushed open the double doors.

He kept his head up and walked past and almost through people. Not noticing, or maybe not caring about, the looks that were being thrown his way. The only thing on Draco's mind at the moment was Potter.

 _I'd bet 100 galleons that he's going to try following me around again._ Draco griped with a small frown showing on his face. _I guess that it was too much to ask for this year to have nothing to do with those Gryffindors._ Draco supposed that he would just have to do with a shadow or three for another year. It's not like he would be doing anything nefarious or evil any time soon.

Not that Potter would believe him anyway.

Draco made a small huff of laughter. _Potter wouldn't believe a word out of my mouth until-_

Draco's thoughts were interrupted by two hands in between his shoulder blades shoving him to the ground.

Draco lay still. Shocked but not surprised. People were bound to lash out at him eventually.

But still, the fact that some snot nosed little brat had the audacity to even touch him…

"We don't need your kind here, you Death Eater scum." the hall silenced.

 _Oh Merlin above, give me strength._ Draco closed his eyes and picked himself up off the ground trembling with rage.

Once Draco righted himself, he turned, opening his eyes to a no name 6th year Gryffindor standing there with his two Gryffindor friends.

"We don't need you here poisoning the rest of us with your shit Death Eater ways, trying to convert us all." the boy with no name sneered.

"Yeah!" his friends- sorry- lackeys? added unnecessarily.

 _Are they serious?_ Draco repressed the urge roll his eyes for about the twentieth time in the span of five minutes, because doing it more than nineteen couldn't possibly be good for his eyesight.

He glanced around at all of the faces of students watching. Waiting to see what happened. Waiting to see Draco make a mistake.

Draco wasn't going to give any one of those fuckers the satisfaction of watching him fail this time.

"So why don't you do us all a favor and get the hell out of our school?" No Name continued with a self-important, self-satisfied look on his face, crossing his arms in front of him like he just said something thought provoking and profound.

 _Shit. I forgot the kid was even talking._ Draco tried to key back into whatever was happening but was distracted by the stupid look on No Name's face.

 _Did I look like that when I was being a shit?_ Draco thought back on his assholery.

He shook his head. _No. When I bullied, the shit I said was clever. People listened to the clever shit that I said, people were scared of me and if they weren't, they at least knew my fucking name._

Draco felt hands shove him back a step, and his steely grey eyes snapped to No Name.

"Scared, Malfoy?" No Name got closer to him looking as uninterestingly ordinary as humanly possible. "Run back home to your Mummy."

 _I mean, really._ Draco finally gave in to the need and rolled his eyes.

"Is this what passes as bullying now I've stopped?" Draco snarked with one pale, blond brow raised.

No Name blinked in surprise and took a slight step back, he then looked at his companions for help, but they looked just as confused and alarmed that Draco was talking back as he did.

"I don't know whether be disappointed, laugh, or just plain be insulted." with that Draco made his second dramatic exit in ten minutes. The only difference this time, is the snickers he heard finally targeted at someone else follow him.

* * *

The 8th year dorms and Common room were located in a previously unused part of the castle, because McGonagall deemed it necessary to separate to the repeat 7th years from the popular census.

Draco hated it. It was too cold, at the very top of the highest tower like in some kind of fairytale. It was too loud, wind blowing at all hours of the day, not to mention the owls flying in and out of the always open windows with post. Down in the dungeon there was no post. If you wanted post you had to leave the dungeon to receive it. So he was safe. Safe from his father, at least in his room, which had become a safe place, a place where his father couldn't reach him. But now, Lucius could get to him at any moment of the day. With only a few choicely written words, his father could tear him down.

When he walked into the 8th year Common Room it fell silent, just like it always did. Draco had already grown to expect nothing less. His years of people jumping up to gain his favor have passed, and now they only watch to see whether he pulls himself together or has a complete mental breakdown. And Draco has no doubt in his mind which one of the two they are all hoping for.

With his head held high, Draco marched right past all of the other students, who made better choices than him in the past years, and straight to his dorm room that he still shared with Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, and Gregory Goyle.

Not Crabbe. Not anymore.

Ignoring that particular depressing thought, Knot and Goyle laughing so hard at something they were falling all over each other, and Zabini obviously attempting to make eye contact with him from across the room.

 _Whatever the hell he wants can wait, until after I sleep for fifty years._ Draco thinks to himself. _Zabini never has anything to actually say and avoids confrontation like the damn plague, if it's really that serious, I'm sure he can flee from it sufficiently._ With that final little huff of amusement with himself, Draco opened the door and immediately took a step back, wrinkling and covering his nose.

"Ugh!" Draco regathered his bearings and slowly walked into the room. With his lip curled in disgust he lowered his hand and pointed his nose in the direction of Goyle's bed, knowing that the boy sometimes stuffed his dirty pants under his bed, and took an experimentary sniff.

 _Unhygienically foul. But, not quite the ridiculous, malodorous thing attacking my sense of smell._ Draco used his nose like a bloodhound, sniffing around the room in search of whatever could possibly be the source of such an unholy odor.

Draco thought back to Nott and Goyle laughing. _Were they laughing at me?_ He thought back to Zabini trying to get his attention. _Did he do something?_ Draco questioned and started toward Zabini's bed and almost fainted as the odor became immeasurably stronger.

Way to strong to be coming from Zabini's bed, which is the next one over, but from his own.

Eyes wide in horror, Draco dropped his bag to the ground and slowly crept closer to the amonously drawn curtains, on which he _slept_ every night, completely forgetting the fact that he was the one to close them this morning.

Wrapping his fingers around the thick, green fabric; Draco gathered all his bravery, and took a deep breath.

Then his fingers tightened on said green fabric as he doubled over choking on the toxic fumes wafting from his bed, _his bed!_

Embodied with righteous fury, Draco straightened and threw the curtains open and his jaw dropped to his feet.

On his pristinely made bed with it's Slytherin green Egyptian cotton of too many threads to even be counted, placed under a heating charm, sat a plate of shit.

In all its misshapen, brown, lumpy, putrid glory.

 _It had to have been Zabini._ Draco thinks to himself. But he and Zabini were always on relative speaking terms, there was never any malice between the two of them.

Draco stood there open mouthed, staring at the plate of shit on his bed. Thinking about anything he could have done to Zabini to warrant such hatred.

 _I- I don't know what to do, never in my life has anyone ever hated me so much that they shit on a plate and placed it on my bed under a heating charm._ Draco is baffled, confused, and hurt. Nothing anyone has ever said or done to him has ever hurt him this much.

 _Hex me? That's a given. Curse me? Of course. Punch me in the face? Yes, even that. But never, ever has anyone's hatred towards me been shown in any type of private bodily function._

Still confused, but not wishing to have such a depravity on his bed any longer, Draco started to turn back to his bag where his mother's wand was, when he noticed the parchment beside the shit for the first time.

 _Well, this ought to be fucking phanominal._ Squaring his shoulders, Draco prepared himself for what was going to obviously be Zabini ripping him a new one in a very Zabini like fashion, safely through a letter from afar.

Draco picked up the letter with a hand absolutely not slightly trembling, and immediately had to physically stop himself from tearing it to shreds in a hysterical fit of rage. Because written in a chicken-scratch handwriting and crayon was:

Deer Not Beeing Dobby's Mastr Anymor Yung Mastr Draco Malfoy

Yung Not Mastr Draco Malfoy haz ben very kind and thotful to Dobby. Even wen Dobby culd not make Coq Au Vin properrly. Evn wen Dobby wuld ovr cook the meets. And not enuf wine. Not evn thn waz Yung Not Mastr Draco Malfoy rood or notkind. So Dobby trid his very best and got it perrfekt. Sos Yung Not Mastr Draco Malfoy can eat it think of home and be hapee.

Love Free Hogwarts Houseelf Dobby

Draco was vibrating with pure unadulterated anger. " **PERFECT?!** " Draco screamed, and he pretended not to hear the uproarious laughter come from right outside the door. _That idiotic house elf thinks this pile of crap is perfect!_ Draco couldn't believe that he got himself worked up and emotional over something that wasn't even a declaration of hatred, but fucked up gratitude from a mentally challenged house elf.

The fact that the house elf thought it did a job well done was frankly insulting Draco's sensibilities. The fact that this act was supposedly 'kind' pissed Draco off beyond belief, because as loathe as he was to admit it; before he knew what this was supposed to be, it had insulted him like nothing else before.

Draco crumpled up the letter and threw it down next to the plate of 'food' and sneered _I can't believe it's trying to pass this on as food. As Coq Au Vin, no less! I should call him in here and break it to him that the very second he became a Hogwarts elf, he ceased being 'free'._ But Draco reigned in the urge.

No longer wishing this blemish upon humanity and his senses, Draco reached down in his bag for the wand. Only hand brushed the hard, cold cover of the Muggle book he lifted from the library.

The Muggle book about French cooking. Draco looked down at the abomination that he originally thought was a pile of shit on his bed, and curiously ran a finger down the indented letterings of the spine again.

The book was silent. It didn't purr, growl, move, or whisper. There was no hint about how the book was on the inside. It was a complete mystery.

One more glance at the 'Coq Au Vin' and Draco had decided. He pulled out both the book and the wand, attempting not to look at the atrocity even once more. Draco vanished the 'food', set the strongest Air Freshening charms that he knew of and climbed into his bed with the muggle book.

Once situated against the headboard and the book in his lap, Draco was once again apprehensive. The book looked wet, but seeing as Draco just had it in his hands he knew that it was dry. The outside cover was pure white, and had elaborate black print on it that said, **_French Provincial Cooking_**. Biting his lip, Draco slowly ran his index findex down the front of the book, his finger lagged a bit so he pulled down harder.

Suddenly, the book made an irritated, squeaking noise and sent a warning sting all the way up his arm, that felt more like a tingle, from the very tip of his finger.

With an undignified yelp, Draco tossed the book to the foot of his bed, and jumped up his headboard even higher. _I thought that Muggle books couldn't do that._ Draco eyed the book warily as the tingly feeling in his arm began to ebb away.

 _It was most likely Madam Pince._ Draco nodded to himself. _She made it so that the Muggle books could protect themselves._ Convinced, Draco crawled down the bed and gently petted down the front of the book in apology.

Once Draco felt that the book was properly consoled, he softly opened it up to the table of contents. The pages of the book were strange. They were thick and glossy. The pictures of food, that Draco had to admit looked good, didn't move.

Draco's eyes scanned down the list of contents, but froze because he zeroed in on one line:

 **Coq Au Vin….page 36**

Coq Au Vin. _Coq Au Vin. I've been dying to have… and right here._ Draco flips to page 36 so fast that if the pages weren't so thick, he surely would have ripped a few of them. That must be why they're made that way.

The picture of the Coq Au Vin was gorgeous. That was the only word Draco could think of that could accurately describe it. It couldn't even had been better if it had moved, that's how beautifully made it was. _Oh, Merlin._ Wishing to touch Draco reached out a finger and traced the photo lightly, he could hear a low rumbling sound in the background of his mind, his stomach reminding him that dinner had happened a couple hours ago, and that there were no more scheduled meals.

Eyes traveling down from the photo to the word in big bolded print:

 **Ingredients**

Straight to the point; Draco liked that, Potions texts tend to go on and on about how great the potion is before getting to the part on how to actually make it.

 _Potions._ Draco just noticed that he was comparing this to potions. _Well, now that I've had a good look, I suppose that this could be similar to Potions._ Draco's eyes skimmed down the rest of the page. _In a way. I bet I could make this._ Draco shakes his head and kills that thought. Him cooking? Like a Muggle? It was laughable. It was almost derogatory.

The rest of his thoughts were interrupted by a regal black owl, his father's owl, flying in through the ever open window with a screech.

Draco froze, he covered the book with his body, just in case the owl held the ability to read, use Legilimency, and the ability to tell his father that he was not only reading a Muggle cooking textbook, but wishing to learn from and use previously mentioned Muggle cooking textbook even for a split second.

Then Draco saw the red envelope in the owl's talons and his world stopped for a moment. _A howler._ His father had sent him a howler. Never in all of Draco's life had his father sent him a howler. Sharply worded letter with a curse or hex attached to it, yes. But never a howler.

His father thought they were crass, unbecoming of a pureblood to be yelling, and be heard losing control around others. But, here it was waiting, on the black owl's outstretched foot. The owl still hasn't moved from it's one footed balancing act, empty black eyes boring into him. Waiting for Draco to take the letter.

Sitting up and closing his textbook, Draco slowly reached out to the letter, terrified of the bird almost as much as the howler. Once Draco's fingers wrapped around the letter, the owl leaped into the air and was gone out of the same window it came through.

Still with fear Draco hadn't even noticed that the howler was now in the air, looking at him disapprovingly, until he heard his father's condescending voice fill the room.

"Have you panicked for a sufficient amount of time to start paying attention now?" demeaned, Draco lowered his head.

"You know, Son, you really should answer your mother's letters, you do realize how she worries. But, it doesn't surprise me how you disappoint me again." Draco bit his lip, and his heart beated faster as his father carried on calmly like they're seated neatly across from each other having tea, not like he's sent Draco a howler from Azkaban at all.

"If you had even bothered to open the letter that I sent you this morning- in fact I would bet that you haven't. I would bet that it's still untouched in the exact same place that the owl left it this morning." he was right. Draco looked at his pillow where the unperturbed letter lay in the exact same place where the owl left it this morning. Draco hated that he was right.

"You would know that I had disclosed the sex of your new sibling." Draco's heart stuttered, his knuckles were clenched so hard that his fingernails were embedded into the palms of his hands.

"Now, now. Stop doing that with your hands." his father sighed exasperatedly. Draco relaxed his hands without even the chance to think about it. No, the only thing flashing through Draco's mind was the mantra, _Please be a girl. Please be a girl. Please be a girl. Please be a girl._

"Come, Draco, it's not that exciting. You're going to have a little brother."

Draco exhaled and closed his eyes. His mind was blank. The only thing he heard was his father's voice saying the same phrase over and over again. _You're going to have a little brother. You're going to have a little brother. You're going to have a little brother._

The more times he heard the sentence, the more malice he heard behind the words. _You're going to have a little brother. You're going to have a little brother._ Draco didn't know if the words were being fabricated from his own mind and turned over and over, or if it was actually his father who was repitating. All he knew was that this was the reason for the sent howler, instead of the regular letter. The unsurety, the slight unhingedness of Draco's mind.

"Maybe now you'll stop slacking off, and really begin to make an effort." Lucius's voice sharpened and Draco snapped to attention. _An effort? He doesn't think I make an effort? I can understand the being a failure, but all together not trying in the first place? All I ever do is try. I am_ ** _always trying for him._**

"Because, now as I've gathered you have realized, you can and will be replaced." Lucius finished in a cold, hardened voice.

"You are going to receive tasks from me, and being my son, you are not going to embarrass me or the family name by failing." his father continued.

"If I have to, I will disinherit you, Draconis. You will be homeless, penniless, and friendless. You're too weak, Draco, I blame your mother. She coddled you. Well, she won't be ruining this one. I will be training this one, once it's old enough to walk and talk." Lucius went on as if he wasn't talking about abandoning one child and taking the other from his mother.

I don't want to think. I don't want to think anymore. I don't want to be having this 'conversation' any longer. I just want to eat something. That's all I want. I don't want to be doing any tasks. I don't want to be getting ahead of anyone. I don't want to think about that poor baby being raised by my father. I don't want to think about my inevitable disinheritance. I just want to eat something.

"Oh, and do me a favor, son?" Lucius added as almost an afterthought. "Answer your mother's letters more often, will you. I mean I do understand your ignoring them, she can get quite annoying, but there are only so many times that I can politely answer to her, 'I wonder how our Draco is doing.' or 'How do you think he's doing in his classes?' then, it's disrespectful to ignore your parents is it not?" Draco's blood couldn't even boil properly while his father was mocking his mother and the pit of guilt he felt toward her deepened that much more, but at the moment he didn't care, all he wanted was food.

"Yes, Draco, I am finished. You can go console yourself by stuffing your face now." with those last condescending words the howler tore itself into pieces.

Draco wasn't hungry anymore. He was humiliated. His father knew what he was going to do, and how he was going to react before he even had the chance.

And now that he was embarrassed, he was angry.

 _Fuck him. Fuck him for his ideals. Fuck him for having another kid. Fuck him him for that kid being a boy. Fuck him for threatening me. Fuck him for ruining my appetite. And fuck him for knowing me better than I know myself_.

It was then that Draco knew he had to do something- anything If Lucius knew Draco's every move then Draco just had to do something unexpected, he had to do something spontaneous. Not only that, whatever he did do, it had to be something rebellious. Even if no one knew about it or he was going to lose his fucking mind.

Draco's eyes trailed back to the Muggle textbook and had an idea. He grabbed it and opened back to page 36. Coq Au Vin. _I'm going to make this. Not only am I going to make this, I'm going to buy all of these ingredients myself. In person. At wherever it is Muggles get their food._

Draco scanned the page and didn't understand a single thing written on the page. It was like the directions were in a different language all together. _Well if Muggles can do it, I don't see why I would be incapable._ Draco reasoned with himself. _It's not like I'm going to do worse than Dobby._

Draco chose to ignore the quiet mantra in his head still going, _You're going to have a little brother. You're going to have a little brother._ He also chose to ignore the fact that he wasn't sure either of his parents we fit to be so.


	3. The End of a War

I am so sorry. I just lost all interest in this. I am filled with some at the moment, but I'm not sure how long this will last. I will try and get more chapters written or at least I will do what I can. Again, so sorry. I know this is short, but it's what I have. I'm also sorry for the suckish chapter title.

* * *

The war is over.

Now is the time for peace.

Now is the time to begin building a better future.

At least that's what everyone kept saying, Harry isn't so sure.

Something isn't right. No way it's all resolved, just like that. Now everything's fine?

No, Harry isn't so sure.

Harry has a feeling. A feeling that the fighting hasn't ended. An instinct, really.

A fat lot good instincts are going to do for him now. Harry no longer lived in a world that needs his instincts. No longer lived in a world where knee-jerk reactions are necessary. Where the ability to draw your wand and shoot out a spell faster than your opponent could even think, was needed.

The war is over.

There is no more Order. No longer any room for them in this new world, where everyone is safe. Where Death Eaters are in Azkaban, and the Aurors are actually doing their jobs.

Everything is peaceful.

That's the thing that Harry doesn't believe or understand. How can everything be peaceful? Thousands of people died. Buildings are in ruins. Families are in shambles.

There is just no way that his job is done.

There is just no way when he still has his instincts.

He still has what's no longer needed in this new world, where everything is peaceful. Harry still has what he needed to survive in the world that used to be his.

That is how Harry knows, that's how he knows that it isn't over.

His instincts are so strong that he doesn't have complete control over when and where they're appropriate.

Loud noises make him jump and reach for his wand. Fast movements make him jump and reach for his wand. Silence makes him paranoid and reach for his wand. Too many people make him paranoid and reach for his wand. New people make him suspicious and reach for his wand. Darkness makes him paranoid and reach for his wand. Talking makes him paranoid and reach for his wand. Being alone makes him paranoid and reach for his wand. Sleeping makes him paranoid and reach for his wand.

Everything makes him fucking paranoid and reach for his fucking wand.

He'd be walking outside with Ron and Hermione and hear a scream.

The first thing Harry does is duck behind a pillar and have his wand out, his magic surrounding him, ready to attack. Harry would then notice that his best friends were still in the line of fire.

He'd whisper and motion frantically, not understanding why they were just standing there, watching him with sad, pitying eyes.

Then they'd walk toward him and Harry's eyes would become alert again. Harry would quickly glance around the pillar he was huddled behind. There was a girl screaming in terror trying to get away from a Death Eater that was tackling her to the ground with a terrifying grin on his face.

Harry would quickly explain his plan to save the girl to Ron and Hermione, only the two of them would put their hands up in a placating manner, moving slowly, and with eyes full of worry, they would calmly say together as if rehearsed, "The war is over."

Confused, Harry would allow them to pull him from behind the pillar. Ron and Hermione wouldn't say anything else. Harry would splutter and question and gesture largely at the girl who was still screaming. And laughing.

Harry would stare at the girl, defeated. She's with what must be her boyfriend, playing a stupid, flirty game of tag.

The war is over.

Harry knows this. He knows that the fighting has ended and that there is no longer a need for a savior that is more than the cover page of The Prophet.

The war is over.

How can it be? When he sees it everywhere he turns.

He saw Fred, killed when that wall blew up, every time he looked at Ron.

He heard her screaming as Bellatrix tortured her when he looked at Hermione.

His parents, murdered by Voldemort, when he looked in the mirror.

Dumbledore, falling off the Astronomy Tower when he looked at McGonagall.

Snape, killed on Voldemort's call by Nagini, when he was in potions.

Colin Creevey, killed by a vampire right in front of him, when he saw Dennis.

How can it just be over, when everywhere, EVERYWHERE he looked. There was a reminder.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw people dying. People he knew, people he didn't; it didn't matter.

How can the war be over, when it followed him everywhere?

* * *

"Harry, are you even listening?" Hermione voiced when she noticed the boy was in his own world.

"Wha-?" Harry snapped back to attention, he looked around trying to remember where he was. Judging by all of the books, Ravenclaws, and the fact that Hermione was there Harry could guess that he was in the library.

Harry turned his head back to an annoyed Hermione. "Er…"

"Harry!" Hermione whisper shouted. "How do you expect to pass the class if you don't even pay attention to me, let alone the professor?"

Harry sat up, ready to defend himself, with the fact that paying attention to Hermione and paying attention to the professor are two very different things when they were interrupted by the loud sound of books hitting the table.

Harry jumped so furiously that the table jerked with him.

Immediately his eyes were on the exits. There was only one. That could be both an advantage and disadvantage, one way in and one way out. Looking up to his friends, Harry was going to let them know of his observations, only his voice caught in his throat when he saw the looks on their faces. That look, he had seen it almost every day since the day the war ended. That look that said he was damaged.

"I'm fine." Harry snaps quickly to avoid the two of them getting started.

"Harry, there are ways that can help you. People that you can talk to-" Harry cuts her off with a sharp look and a stern, "I do not need nor want to see a _shrink,_ Hermione." Harry's never-waning guilt is burrowed a little deeper when he sees the taken aback surprise and sorrow on her face.

With an exhausted sigh Harry plops his elbows on the table and tugs at his hair it's both hands. He stays just like that for a few seconds, relishing in the stinging pain before he slides his hands down his face and looks up at Hermione.

She's sitting there silently looking down at him with a motherly pity in her eyes. Harry avoids her gaze.

"'Mione, I'm fine." Harry sighs out as he places his head back on the table and drapes his arms over himself as a makeshift protection barrier, which wasn't working.

"I mean.. the war is over right?" He whispers the last part, almost hoping that he was too quiet for her to hear him, but confusingly at the same time wishing that she would.

"Yeah Harry." She whispers back in answer and tries to comfort him by reaching out a hand and taking one of his. The gesture doesn't do what it's meant to and Harry wants to shake her hand off.

"It's over." All Harry can feel at the moment is the small pressure of her fingernails digging slightly into his skin.


End file.
